Could Be Dangerous
by Whisper Gypsy
Summary: Sherlock reveals the results of his most recent data collection on a topic he hasn't considered in several years. Or, where Sherlock tells John he was wrong about himself. Casefic with romance. Trigger warnings in detail within, but: mild dubcon references, mild dom/sub references, and drug use. John's POV
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello all, I've been meaning to post this one for a while, writing it in snippets in my mind for ages, but today it just all came together and flew off my fingers and onto the page. I hope you will all enjoy this! Side note, Sherlock's music choice is slightly (read LARGELY) inspired by the 2cellos' rendition of Michael Jackson's hit. Go watch those talented Croatians play their cellos. (*drool*)

Disclaimer: Sherlock is a product of the BBC and all rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Doyle respectively.

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Trigger warnings: Dubcon, asexual/scientific attitude towards sex, hints of dom/sub, wanking, pornography, and discussion of the various definitions of sexuality especially: demisexuality and sapiosexuality. All of these appear within in to some capacity, and if you don't want what's within, respect the label on the tin.

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"Allow me to explain, if I can, John. I want you to understand. I've only recently begun to understand myself." Sherlock's tone is flat, but the plea can still be deciphered within. He is still facing the window, spine straight, violin limp on his shoulder and bow dangling from his dropped hand.

John looked up from his tea at the non sequitur and set the mug over onto the side table. After all their time together—ignoring that unmentioned gap of three years—John was more than used to Sherlock talking about him as if he weren't there, or talking to him when he wasn't there. There were rarer time when, like now, Sherlock talked to John, not realizing he was actually there. It didn't really bother John, with all the chaotic synaptic activity which enshrined itself within Sherlock, he was pleased to be devoted a significant portion of the infamous Mind Palace. So. he plumped the Union Jack pillow into the small of his back before leaning back. "Alright, Sherlock. Let's hear it. What are you going to explain?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, gaze still locked on some tangible thread of deduction without the window, or a less tangible connexion of thoughts within his mind's eye. John sighed and took up his ta once more, settling himself in to wait.

He'd finished the mug of tea, three orange-chocolate biscuits, and was halfway through a slightly more tepid mug before Sherlock spoke again. "I was eleven when Mycroft first explained the dynamics of masturbation to me. Initially it seemed tedious, but the ensuing calm in my mind and loosening in my muscles made the endeavor a useful medication for insomnia."

John paused with the mug in his left hand halfway up to his mouth. Setting the cup very carefully down onto the table he turned his gaze fully towards his esoteric flat mate, who carried on as though John hadn't reacted at all. "At the same time I began reading pornographic works. I never was able to enjoy the images or videos you seem to prefer—I'm too busy deducing when his or her rent is due, whom he or she is having an affair with, or what they last ate. Too much mundane data for positive stimulation. And besides, they're all dull. Leading dull lives they use to rationalize the guilt they feel over their chosen, admittedly lucrative, careers. Tedious. And a proverbial mood-killer." Sherlock moved his right arm up and teased his bow across the strings, pulling a taut sound from the beloved instrument. "So I would read as I wanked."

Blinking, John gazed down at his hands—not a single tremor—craving danger, certainly, but this… This was more than danger. This was listening to the universe explain his sexual habits in the voice of a fallen angel. "In all the time between then and now, I have never had what I would deem a relationship, let alone a serious one. I had two "boyfriends" , one when I was fifteen, the second when I was nearly eighteen. Though, I never got very far with either of them, or rather, they never got very far with me, the extent of interaction we did come to was the fruit of a juxtaposing of my ignorance of certain matters and my curiosity in others."

"There was also a… team mate of mine from the swim team in when I was twelve, but while I ended up enjoying responding to her commands, I didn't trust her and hadn't meant to be alone with her to begin with. I avoided her like the plague until I went away to Uni early."

Sherlock's bow hand paused in its movements across his shoulder. "I had meant to delete that, to delete her, but I can't."

John remained seated, knowing Sherlock would only be able to share all this, to speak these secrets, once, but he had to tighten his hands into the arms of the chair to prevent his moving. Still, he couldn't help asking, "She touched you and you didn't want her to, Sherlock?"

"I made her stop touching me, but then she made me touch myself, and told me to do certain thigns. I managed to get myself off of course, and I was curious as to why she was doing the whole thing. Her behavior was something I had never experienced directed towards myself and I was fascinated. But it grew dull so quickly and I hadn't wanted her to begin with. So I walked away."

"Sher-," John cleared his throat, trying to tamp down his anger. "Sherlock. That girl practically turned you into her own personal porn doll, didn't care if you were willing—did she even ask?"

Sherlock's silence stretched between them for a long moment. "She asked me if I wanted to do something new with her. I couldn't read the hints she was giving off, though looking back they seem blindingly obvious. And I told her yes I wanted to see whatever new thing this was."

John moved his left hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. "But you didn't want her attentions, did you?"

"Of course not."

"Did it never occur to you to tell her no?"

"I didn't think I was allowed."

"Sherlock!" John realized belatedly that he had risen from his seat.

"Sit down, John. I'm perfectly aware of the fact now, but at twelve years old, it had never been an issue before. Besides, it was essentially a very light, very early introduction to the etiquette of BDSM. What's their motto? Safe, Sane, and Consensual?"

"So you're telling me you were essentially raped by this girl, but it's all fine because you didn't' know better?" John's voice had a sharp. Brittle edge to it.

Sherlock's nod precipitated his return to playing. "Precisely, John. Besides, once I gathered enough data to understand what she was doing, I never saw her again. I'm hardly about to track her down now and tell her that she should have known better at fourteen herself?"

John was fuming. "You absolutely will not. But I just might."

"Honestly, John. While flattering, revenge is hardly conductive to any useful purpose. And where would I be with my blogger locked up on murder charges?"

John grumbled but settled back into a more comfortable position in his armchair. "They'd have to find the body first. I was a soldier, you know."

Sherlock's upper lip tilted upwards in the hint of a smirk, just visible in profile over the fine-tuners and tailpiece of his violin. "Of course. Now, as I was saying, I only had the two boyfriends. I was never attracted to the girl, and have since realized I have a predisposition towards the male gender. My first boyfriend was for a few weeks when I was fifteen. Due to my ignorance, I never saw it coming when he pulled me off to the stairwell and out of the hallway."

John sat up in his chair once more, brow furrowed as he listened attentively. "You may have noticed I don't like people touching me, John. With you and Mrs. Hudson as specific exceptions to that rule." After a short pause, Sherlock added, "Lestrade, as well, when he's not being an idiot. I was not always so adverse to touch."

John stared at the line of Sherlock's neck, curved toward his violin as though dancing with it. As the bow shuttled back and forth quietly over the strings, his long, poised fingers came close to brushing the soft, white skin there, but never did. "What happened, Sherlock?"

"For all that I can deduce about a person, I did not expect to be kissed when he pulled me out into the stairwell. Hand-holding and hugs had been a common occurrence, and while they weren't bothersome, they didn't seem like anything special. Just things expected of a "couple", doing things couples did, even if the couple didn't particularly want to. So, Nicholas pulled me into the stairwell and he kissed me. I spent the first quarter of the kiss in shock, the second and third quarters feeling like an imbecile for not having realized his intentions, and the fourth quarter returning the kiss whilst attempting to determine whether or not I enjoyed it."

John coughed a little, to cover his tiny smile at the mental picture of Sherlock being kissed by some bloke who's ignorant of the fact Sherlock is currently mentally berating himself rather than enjoying the boy's attentions. "Did you never determine your preference?"

"Yes. Kissing is dull. Even with the surprise additions of tongues to the mixture, it was bland, muscles and organs interacting in a manner conducive to nothing."

John did chuckle then. "Did you never consider you didn't like kissing him because he made you feel like a fool?"

Sherlock stopped playing abruptly and turned his head to gaze at John in surprise before a true grin spread across his features. "No, I hadn't. Excellent deduction, John. That's precisely it! Or at least, party of it, but very good. I hadn't considered that side of things…" And with that Sherlock turned away and began playing scales on his violin, lost in thought.

John sighed, stood and rinsed his mug and plate off before popping into the loo. By the time he'd returned, Sherlock had moved from scales to some dramatic baroque piece John recognized but couldn't recall the name of. Maybe it had been in one of the Disney Fantasia films? Or some commercial? No matter.

John's act of sitting in his chair musty have been a signal to Sherlock, because he quieted his playing and began speaking again, picking up right where he had left off. "My second boyfriend came three years later, shortly before I turned eighteen. I was older, and a bit more prepared for the physical trappings of a relationship. We dated for just over a month. It was over when he gave me an "anniversary gift", Sherlock's lip curled into a mocking sneer at the phrase, "and I realized how seriously Viktor was taking the relationship while I still was only mildly curious and tired of not having a friend. So I let him touch me all he wanted and even reached out to touch him, curious as to how another man's cock would feel. I never even undid his trousers. I was already so bored just touching him through them, I turned away from him and watched the idiotic film we had chosen to see. To this day, I'm still pleased he was too much of a wimp to insist upon seeing the film he clearly wanted to."

John chuckled. "Really? What's he want to see? And what'd you pick?"

"He wanted to watch some James Bond film. Boring. And then he wouldn't be paying attention to me. Not that I was particularly eager for the attention he did give me. I chose a children's animated film instead. It was worth it for how bored he was too."

"Oh, God," John chuckled. "Alright, so he liked to feel you up, but you were bored so it never went anywhere. Wait, hold up. If you weren't interested, couldn't he tell? I mean, a lack of an erection at a certain time is just as obvious as the prescence of one in others.

Sherlock hmm'd before replying, "He was more interested in my nipples and arse to be honest. He married now, to a skinny bird with a, what's the term? "Bubble-butt"?"

John's face went very red, his eyes moved to trace the lines of Sherlock's trousers, which rested—conveniently—at eye-level for him. He cleared his throat against the myriad of thoughts which threatened to overwhelm him at the idea of cupping Sherlock's arse or fingering his nipples. "Alright. So, yeah."

Both men breathed in the sounds of Sherlock's violin for a few moments, before John asked, "Was there something you meant to tell me, or was this you opening up about your past more?"

Sherlock smiled. "Both, John. But hush, there's more." He played another three movements dramatically, this time John recognized Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal" with an ironic smile, before the notes faded into Vivaldi's "Rain". "After these few experiences, and with no physical response to any of these individuals on my part, I diagnosed myself as an asexual—possessing a perfectly functioning biological system which could experience arousal and orgasm on its own, but not with another person." Sherlock ignored John's uncomfortable shifting about in the arm chair as he tuned his instrument back through the main bars of "Smooth Criminal".

"And so I sought out other forms of stimulus. Seven percent solutions, and cases. The Work came through for me, promising an insurmountable well of stimulus, but bearing periodic dry spots. I would have turned to cocaine in the interim once more, had Lestrade not firmly insisted not to share his cases with me unless I was clean and stayed that way. Research in the lab and morgue at St. Bart's manages to eat up some of that empty time. " Sherlock drew a whining note from his tortured violin before saying, "And so I considered myself married to my work."

John nodded. "I know, Sherlock. You told me, on day one, no less."

"Day two," Sherlock corrected. "And I was wrong."

John nodded and then paused. "I'm sorry, did you just say you were wrong?"

"I'm not about to repeat it, if that's what you want. My error was in determining myself asexual, when I clearly had a fully-functioning sex drive, though some asexuals do masturbate. I could wank rather easily. In fact, it's how I constructed my mind palace in the first place."

"I. Don't. What?" John's exasperated and completely bewildered sounds evoked a small smile from Sherlock.

"When I wanked, to calm myself, I began organizing rooms, and details until I reached completion. Little things initially, like folds in clothing, or smudges left on furniture. It calmed me."

Sherlock turned to find John just nodding, eyes staring at a spot over Sherlock's head as though he were praying. "Honestly, John. Not everyone can just lie back and think of England. I leave that to the government."

A small giggle escaped the doctor before he could prevent it, and Sherlock continued. "What I have realized, due to further data, John, is that I am not asexual."

John stopped giggling and faced Sherlock. "No? What then?"

"John, I am a demisexual, with sapiosexual tendencies and a distinct preference for the male gender. I also seem to be devolving, or discovering, several kinks, including but not limited to medical, uniform or military, and submission."

John choked on his responding, "Oh."

"I can hear you thinking. Sometimes you're absolutely spot-on with it, but now you're just mired in the details. A demisexual is incapable of feeling sexual attraction outside of a deep emotional relationship or bond. Sapiosexuals, obviously, consider the intellect the highest element of attraction in their partner, though they can give suitable appreciation to other qualities, such as loyalty or an addiction to danger."

"Obviously?" John managed in a voice much shakier than his normal timbre.

"Yes. Sapio, from the Latin for "to try, to research". Do keep up, John."

Strains of "April in Paris" twisted in the tense air between them while John digested this new information. "So," he finally answered. "Who is he?"

"Don't be an idiot, John. Your intelligence is your most attractive quality. When you choose to use it, that is."

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E/N: Review and let me know what you think. More to come later.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

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A/N: Firstly, thank you to all the lovely people who reviewed this and asked for a faster update. The first chapter was a bit of cathartic writing for me, so the rest will be generally slower in updating—though I hope to shorten that time by writing a bit of it every day. In other news, I will be adding warnings to this fic as they are introduced in the plot, so expect a trigger section at the start of each chapter letting you know what's within. I do understand some people's desire for surprise (I'm usually one of them), but I know how dangerous triggers can be without the heads-up, so they will always be there. If they are not triggers for you, treat them like a teaser section, if you will.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is the product of the BBC (I say this in my head in Benedict Cumberbatch's voice from Cabin Pressure wrap-ups), and all rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Doyle, respectively.

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Trigger: Crime scene, though a really tame one. (Especially for Sherlock)

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Not much changed in 221B Baker Street following Sherlock's revelation, partly due to the timely arrival of NSY's Detective Inspector Lestrade with a tantalizing case, but mostly due to John's stuttering attempts to understand what Sherlock was saying. Or trying to say. What he was saying was rather clear: this is my past, here's what I've done, here's why, and here is the conclusion I previously drew from said data. Followed of course by the more troubling bits: new information, (read: new stimulus, new partner, John) has disproven the previous hypothesis, and so new research commenced.

This new information alone would be enough to toss John through a loop as it is, sending mad thoughts whirling about within his "tiny" brain: _What the bloody hell just happened? Well, Sherlock's let me know he was wrong, which is enough to make today a National Holiday already, but to go out there and throw out details like him having kinks and just… expecting no reaction? No immediate mental picture of Sherlock on his knees, hands bound behind his back, head bowed with those touch-me-if-you-dare dark curls hiding his brilliant eyes while I'm standing in my uniform, giving command and expecting him to obey them. And then, having him obey them, no matter what they are—eat your food, clean up the mess, keep silent and still, suck my cock. Oh, Jesus H. Christ._

John ignored the glances of the silent Sherlock beside him as the black cab drove them through nighttime London. He kept his gaze military-steady (_don't even think about, John Hamish Watson. Don't you even_) and watched the passing scenery. The city was quiet tonight, a soft drizzle of wet which had been more or less falling as floating about since six that morning discouraging any usual idle evening traffic.

_And then, to go on and say things like "loyalty and addiction to danger" as though he meant me… Only to go and add that he's attracted to intelligence first. Well of course you bloody are, Sherlock; you've been in love with yourself all this time!_ Sherlock snorted from the seat beside him and John peeked out the corner of his eye, fearing that Sherlock had possibly read his train of thought through the crick of his neck or some such thing, but the World's Only Consulting Detective was busy tapping away at his new phone—the old one died in an unfortunate accident with a hamster wheel, a blowtorch, and marbles, John was still unclear about the whole point of that particular experiment—texting Lestrade for data about the case.

Satisfied, John returned his attention to the world outside his window in a peripheral sense, but turned his mind back to its main bit to chew. _There was an even greater mystery—miracle, really—to what Sherlock had said earlier. Had he really meant that he has formed that deep emotional bond with me—well, of course he has, we've killed men for each other—and now wants to jump my bones? God…_

John shifted in his seat uncomfortably, wondering why the cabbie kept his cab running at such an high temperature. It was a touch inconsiderate. Sherlock cleared his throat and John felt a rush of blood flood his cheeks, coloring them a heated rose. John turned to look at Sherlock, only to realize the great man was unfolding himself from the cab as it was pulling to the kerb a short distance from some yellow police tape and blinking white and blue police lights.

With a relieved sigh, John leaned forward and paid the cabbie before climbing out and following behind Sherlock. He ducked under the yellow tape, where Donnovan stood, still unable to meet his eyes since her harsh words before the… thing… at St. Bart's those years ago. John walked past her quickly and stood by Greg while Sherlock flitted around. John's eye followed his friend about the crime scene as his mind remained focused on the conversation from a half hour ago.

"Time of death?" Sherlock's voice echoed a bit in the alley. He circled the body—untouched, completely surrounded by an innumerable amount of flowers and flower petals, looking for all the world as though she were sleeping, except for the greyish tint of her flesh—pulling out his pocket magnifier and peered in closer, pulling the girl's scarf aside to peer at her neck, using his pen lid to examine the manicured fingertips, and then peering down at the residue on the soles of her shoes.

Sherlock stood abruptly. "John?"

The doctor jumped at his name before stepping closer to the victim, then pulled on the nitrile gloves Greg offered before crouching to examine her. He peered at the visible skin, trying to determine how she could have died. "Dead about three hours now, give or take. Not dead from hypothermia, no blue or black bits skin on the extremities: ears, noses, or fingers. There's a bit of dried blood in the nasal cavity, so hyposmia at some point, recurring going by the state of her throat. She would allow the blood to flow back into her throat, against doctors' recommendations, rather than letting it flow down and out her nose. No discernable marks or blemishes on her. I don't see any puncture wounds, and burns, or anything. Her sinuses and throat seem a bit swollen, which appears to be pre-mortem."

"Very good, John." Sherlock's voice was a bit softer in the mist, as though perhaps he had actually found a sense of decorum around a dead body. John thought it was more likely he was facing the other way and bent down looking for clues.

DI Gregory Lestrade leaned forward to peer at the victim's face. "So why does she look like she's been crying? It's a bit unsettling, that."

"As always, Lestrade, you see but you do not observe. There are tears pooled on her closed eyelids. Tears were still being formed postmortem. The body doesn't naturally cry once it's been shut down."

Greg blinked at the resident genius. "So, she cried herself to death?"

Sherlock scoffed and spun dramatically away from the pair beside the body.

John leaned back on his heels and peered up at Sherlock as the younger man was spinning around, peering at the scene around them, looking for footprints. "So she's been dead for three hours, but without discernable wounds, I would have to assume an oral poison or overdose—except there aren't any of the traditional symptoms of either, discounting the nosebleeds. How did she die, Sherlock? And why all the flowers?"

"Can you smell that, John?" Sherlock had his head tilted back and was sniffing the muggy air.

John bent his head back and sniffed. Smelling… something floral, he leaned forward and inhaled through his nose again. "It's stronger on the body." Sherlock moved quickly over to John and began ruffling the clothing on the body a bit.

Both men pulled back as even more flower petals spilled out of her jacket upon its opening, littering the area with an even stronger wash of the floral aroma.

John pushed his hand up over his nose at the sheer strength if the undiluted scent. "Death by perfume?"

Sherlock stood quickly. "Nonsense, John. Perfume can't kill you—Zola's Albine aside." The man was ticking away at his phone pulling up several new pages at a time. "Although, I would recommend the pathologist on the case checks her brain for an esthesioneuroblastoma. It would have increased her sensitivity to smells, almost to the point of dulling her sense of smell, as well as caused her nosebleeds, and could allow her to have been overpowered by the scent initially—allowing an attacker to dose her with something. Have the pathologist also examine her for any traces of chemical interference. Anything that could be anything needs to be included in the report."

"Yeah, Sherlock," Greg muttered before asking, "So, who are we looking for, jilted lover, neighbor, mad bank teller?"

John quirked a grin as he pushed his palms against his knees, levering himself into a standing position. "None of the above," Sherlock answered smoothly. "It was suicide. Or at least, that's what the killer wants us to think. He also wishes for us to suspect a priest, should the suicide angle not hold water—which it doesn't. Why come to this back alley to kill yourself when you've got the whole of London to choose from? Honestly."

John stiffened sharply, knees locking and forced his eyes to remain open and focused on the far brick wall as he counted out his breathing. It wasn't often memories of the day were triggered, but when they were they hit him more powerfully than any nightmare from Afghanistan ever had.

Sherlock moved closer to John, cupping his hand around John's neck, allowing the shorter man to feel his warm hand and to faintly count his pulse. John remained still, counting the pulse for a full minute before he untensed his shoulders and broadened his stance. Sherlock began speaking again, leaving his hand on John's neck as though he were apologizing—not for stepping off the building, he'd never apologized for behavior he deemed necessary—for reminding John of the horrible day and three empty years which had followed. "We're looking for a college student, a classmate of hers going by her relative age. Our murderer was interested in French studies—major rather than minor—who felt our victim here deserved to die."

"But why did she deserve to die?" Greg asked. "According to the killer, I mean."

Sherlock sighed and squeezed John's neck once before stepping towards the body. "Did you know flowers were once used as codes by spies or lovers? All these flowers have meaning—it was all the rage in France during the Nineteenth Century, before England picked up the fad. That, plus the reference to Emile Zola, a late nineteenth century writer, points to someone well-versed in French studies, at least during that period. There are only four flowers here: the striped carnations for refusal, the gladiolus petals for strength of character—though considering how torn they all are, the symbolism in that one's a bit pointed—lavender for distrust, and the rhododendrons as a caveat of some sort."

John and Greg nodded, only sort of following Sherlock's quick summation on the language of the flowers strewn about and smothering the body. John tilted his head to the side, "Amazing. But why lay warning flowers on her body if he was just going to kill her? What good would that warning do for her?"

Sherlock straightened up with a grin, leaving the body alone to turn his attention completely onto John. "Exactly! Who is our killer warning with this message? Brilliant, John." John's gaze couldn't help noticing the pale but present blooms of pink color on Sherlock's cut-yourself sharp cheekbones.

Lestrade tucked away the notebook he had been jotting shorthand translations of Sherlock's declarations as they were made and sighed. "All right then. We'll pack her up and take her to the morgue. I'm sure you'll hear from Molly before I will, Sherlock. And," here Greg paused, glancing down at the body of the young woman before continuing, "if this really was meant as a warning, do try to wrap it up quickly… I'd rather not have another warning note be written in blood or some such."

Sherlock was already walking away to hail a cab. "Ta, Greg," John murmured. Greg nodded, before turning back to the body to begin giving direction to his forensics team.

John joined Sherlock in the cab and rode back to Baker Street in silence, recognizing the steepled fingers of Sherlock's Mind Palace posture much the way another person would recognize a Catholic Church by its red candle. He chose to focus on the very interesting and attention-consuming way Sherlock had looked at him after his "brilliant" question—all wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

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E/N: Several relevant points of interest:

The novel Sherlock references is The Sin of Father Mouret, by Emile Zola, published La Foute de l'Abbe Mouret in 1875. There is also an incredible painting of the suicidal Albine, who stuffed her boudoir to the brim with flowers, creating her own tomb of scent after her love returned to the priesthood, by John Collier in 1895 (The Death of Albine).

Esthesioneuroblastoma, also known as an olfactory nueroblastoma (or a tumor in the smell center of the brain) includes these more common symptoms: nasal obstruction, nosebleed (epistaxis), changes in sense of smell (hyposmia), nasal discharge, facial pain, changes in vision, excessive tearing from eyes (lacrimation), facial numbness, and neck masses. Obviously, these symptoms also apply to headaches, sinus infections, migraines, any inflammatory disease in which the lymph nodes in the neck swell, some thyroid issues, allergies or side effects to prescriptions and do not necessarily imply a cancerous growth.

When it comes to the Language of Flowers, there are whole books out there discussing not only the encyclopedic meaning per type, color, and season of flower, but providing historical and literary examples of these flowers being used as secret codes, love messages, and such. Generally, we tend to consider red roses true love, and not give anything else too much thought, though this definition doesn't remain consistent from culture to culture (consider the western theme of black at funerals and the eastern theme of white for death; we expect our brides to wear white, while many eastern brides wear red). Go check it out, because it is all rather very interesting, I didn't realize my choice of lavender scented candles or air fresheners would be considered a sign of distrust. All in all, a very interesting study, which deserves further research on my part.

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All of the above information was gathered either by prior education or a healthy use of Google. I encourage you lot to go and seek out more information. Additionally, if you discover an unique medical/murder history or literary device you'd like to recommend, I'd love to hear about it in a PM.

Please review!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

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A/N: Thank you for all the lovely feedback! Enjoy the chapter. Soundtrack while writing (for those interested) was "Bang Bang (feat Sky Ferreira)" by 2Cellos on repeat. Some serious angst music, and tone-wise, it brings The Great Gatsby to mind. Also, Sherlock Series Three Teaser Trailer aired! (sorry not sorry)

Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC and all rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Doyle respectively.

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Trigger: eyeballs in the microwave, John cusses considerably in his thoughts, mentions of suicidal thoughts, John!Whump, John!Angst, and Greek etymology, sort of.

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Mrs. Hudson greeted them in front of the stairwell of 221 when they returned home. "Oh, boys, are you in for the night then? I was just about to take my evening soothers."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John replied to their—not-your-housekeeper—landlady as Sherlock took the stairs in an impossibly short number of steps. "We've just left Greg at a fresh crime scene."

"Oh, well, Sherlock will be happy at least. My poor walls will live to bore him another day."

John chuckled, "Well, this is certainly a strange one. Young girl—still at uni probably—completely covered in flowers. I mean, there were even some shoved into her clothes. Sherlock seems to think the flowers are a warning for the next victim."

"Really? Well, that would be a pretty way to go, though, wouldn't it? Coated in flowers and floating away to death, like the Lady of Shallot." Mrs. Hudson tucked her fingers over her right hip and squeezed it a bit as she thought of the victim. "Poor dear, though. I wonder if she loved him…"

"Loved who, Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, not following.

"Her murderer, of course. Or perhaps he loved her. He did give her quite a few flowers, you know." She sighed, "Well, that's today for me, then. Goodnight, John, dear."

"Ta, Mrs. Hudson." John nodded at Mrs. Hudson as she waved goodnight and made his way up the stairs. Sherlock was pacing back and forth before the couch, fingers typing rapidly on his mobile as he muttered small asides to himself under his breath.

"No takeaway for you tonight then, Sherlock?" A short mutter, louder than the rest, made its way into the kitchen, conveying something of Sherlock's "Don't eat on cases" mantra, and John nodded as he investigated the fridge for something edible and not too neighborly with any of the controlled-temperature experiments and body parts within.

Finding some rice and broccoli that looked promising, he poured the contents of the takeaway containers onto a clean plate and opened the microwave to tuck them in to reheat when he came eye to eyeballs with several rolling eyeballs—brown, green, grey, and blue pupils seeming to stare at him accusingly for having opened the door of their sanctuary. "Sherlock!"

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It wasn't until two hours later when John had eaten, showered, had one last cup of tea, and climbed into bed that he allowed himself to revisit Sherlock's earlier revelation. This case really couldn't have come at a better time, focusing the heaviest weight of Sherlock's attention on a new problem as John figured out just what the hell he thought about the news that Sherlock cared for him and, even more bizarre than that, was attracted to him.

John was no idiot, he knew Sherlock wouldn't have said these things without them being completely true—the git had the most unfortunate case of foot-in-mouth, but with complete assurance of being right no matter what he said. John certainly cared for Sherlock, the man was his best friend, and John was certainly delighted to be given oral affirmation that the reverse was also true. And yet…

John shifted and rolled over, wincing as he stretched the aching muscle in his injured shoulder. He dragged his other hand through his hair as he stressed over several conflicting desires and convictions. _I'm not gay. Definitely not gay—never been turned on by a bloke in my life. _A quick jaunt down the sand-whipped memory lane to the close-quarters of men-at-war reaffirmed the lack of any physical attraction to men in general. _But Sherlock…_ That thought was cut off with a reminder of Sherlock's diagnostic listing of his kinks, Cupid 's bow lips tracing words like "submission" as thought Sherlock had embodied the worst and best imaginable temptations combined.

_Alright, not gay. But sure as fuck attracted to Sherlock. So now what?_ John sighed as he rolled over onto his stomach and gave up on trying to get comfortable since he wouldn't be sleeping until his brain-train returned settled into one station rather than buzzing through all of them at high speed. A quick glance at the clock showed that it was already early, early morning.

_He says he's formed an emotional bond with me, or else he wouldn't feel the sexual attraction to me that he does. So, it's not as though he's just trying to get a leg over with someone he trusts, right? It's… Christ!_ John knelt up quickly, hands clutching the headboard as dizziness threatened to overpower him. _Sherlock bloody Holmes just told me he loves me!_

In a mad rush of exhilaration, John attempted to jump out of bed and hurry downstairs to—talk to? Smile insanely at? Snog?—his flat mate, but tangled his legs in the sheets and tumbled onto the hardwood floor with a loud thud.

"Oh, Christ, that fucking hurt." John's euphoria had completely evaporated the moment his injured shoulder had crashed into the floor. A buzzing sound flooded his ears and each time he tried to pull himself up a blinding flash of hot white completely eradicated his vision. He groaned a bit and hoped that the thud had been loud enough for Sherlock to come up and help him. An end to the pain would make any embarrassment worthwhile.

* * *

John didn't have to wait long at all. Sherlock had heard the thud of John's body hitting the floor and reacted instantly, certain that John was under attack.

The sight that met his eyes was certainly less desperate, but no less worrisome. John was curled up on the floor, bad shoulder bearing the brunt of his weight, hands and lips clenched so tightly the skin around them was white, his legs were still tangled in the sheets, and a small whine seemed to be working its way out of John's throat without his permission.

Sherlock moved forward quickly, pulling the sheet away with a quick, efficient tug, and slid his hands under John's arms, slowly angling him back so that his weight was put on his lower back and legs, allowing his shoulder to relax a bit. "John. Deep breaths."

John tried to nod, really he did, and worked on deepening his breaths, but the throbbing ache in his shoulder had changed once the weight was lifted from it; no longer a white heat, the pain was now a serious of black and grey bites rippling from his scar down through his torso.

Sherlock heard John whine through his quick breaths, and placed his hands on John's arms, attempting to slowly massage the pain away. "John, focus on me. Can you breathe with me? Don't think about anything else, just my breathing. In. Out. In. Out."

_In. Out. In. Out._Sherlock continued working John through the stress, counting their synchronized breaths in groups of ten. _In. Out._ "One. _In. Out. _ "Two."

Slowly, John pulled back into himself. "Bloody hell."

Sherlock relaxed against him. "Do you want the paracetamol? Water?"

John trembled on weak muscles as Sherlock helped him to sit up on the bed. "Yeah. Yeah."

Sherlock nodded and pulled back a bit, allowing John to realize just how closely the other man had been—narrow chest to tanned back—and pulled John up as he stood. Sherlock helped him to sit on the mattress before heading into the kitchen for the med kit and the water.

John pressed his hand against his uninjured shoulder, trying to distract his mind from the lingering, sharp twinges of pain, groaning through tightly gritted teeth.

A dip in the mattress prompted John to move his hand from his shoulder and hold it out for the pain killers, eyes still shut. Popping them in his mouth, he reached out blindly once more for the glass of water. A quick swallow downed the pills and a longer one settled in to fight the headache he knew he would feel once his shoulder stopped throbbing. "Thank you," he breathed out as he passed the glass back.

"Of course. Nightmare?" John opened his eyes but was cut off quickly, "No; you haven't fallen asleep yet. You're forehead hasn't unwrinkled any."

"Hmm." John chuckled shallowly. "Sure those aren't just the pain dancing across my face?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Your pain shows around your mouth, nose, and eyes. Not your brow."

John smiled. "Ah. Silly me."

Sherlock fidgeted in a very uncharacteristic manner for a minute before allowing his eyes to scan John, and he remained silent.

John sighed. 'I was thinking hard about something. I figured I'd be safe enough to do it while I was lying down and not get hurt."

Sherlock scoffed at John's deprecating grin. "Now you know better." A comfortable silence joined the two men in the small room as John lay back against his headboard, adjusting until he felt more relaxed. "What were you thinking about?" Sherlock asked. "Something Mrs. Hudson said? The body—the girl?"

"You," John interrupted.

"Oh."

"And your confession."

"Hmm." Sherlock's gaze suddenly seemed to find John's ears endlessly fascinating.

"I… It's a lot to take in. You are…" John sighed. "You are the very best thing that has ever happened to me. The first time I met you, you cured me of wanting to eat my gun. And then, when you came back, you cured that hunger again. I…"

Sherlock's hands spasmed, clutching at the quilt bunched up beside him at the mention of John's suicidal memories. Otherwise, the detective held himself dangerously still.

"I don't want to promise you something I can't give, Sherlock. You are my best friend, ever since I met you, and then when Mary died…"

Both men glanced over at the small, unassuming jewelry box sitting on John's dresser, coffin to two simple gold bands.

"Philia," Sherlock spoke at last, "the Greeks believed it was the highest form of love, greater than either erotic love or love of a parent for his or her child."

John glanced away from the dresser and down at his hands, noting with a mental voice that sounded a lot like Sherlock that he hadn't worn the wedding band long enough to leave a tan line. "Sherlock… I do love you… I just…"

"Is it about the sex?" Sherlock interrupted. "because we can—"

"No! God, no. Sherlock, that's just bodies and biology and chemistry and us. We have that already, really. It's… It's the thought of hurting you or letting you down." John looked up from his hands, and found his gaze trapped on the windowpane cheekbones just below Sherlock's eyes. "Because I am nowhere near enough for anyone now, Sherlock. Mary knew that going in, and that was fine. But with you…"

"John." The voice was decisive and clear.

John avoided his gaze. "You are like the brightest star, and you'll burn me with your love, maybe even heal me again. Sherlock. I need to know I can earn that, that I deserve that. First, and then…

"John." Anger danced in his intonations now.

"Please, Sherlock." John finally managed to look up and meet Sherlock's gaze; his eyes were burning a vibrant, passionate blue.

"John, do you know the Greeks discovered another kind of love? Agape—self-sacrificing love. God-love. The greatest of the loves." Sherlock moved his right hand—his bow hand—up to his head and tugged on a tuft of curls while his other hand clutched at the water glass he'd been holding like he'd love nothing more than to smash it against the wall. "You put everything you hold dear on the line for me shortly after meeting me, John. When you shot that cabbie, you gave me all four parts of yourself—mind, body, heart, and soul. The doctor's heart didn't flinch in the face of death, the soldier's mind braved nightmares from hell again, the law-abiding body broke the law and didn't care, and the good man's soul murdered another man. And you counted my continued existence equal to all these things."

John shifted, looking down at his hands again, noting in another inner voice which sounded like Mycroft that they weren't trembling in the slightest. "I don't… I don't know what to say."

"You have always deserved me, John. I walked off St. Bart's that day and burned Moriarty's web, to protect you, but to try and be worthy of that love. I had to even the field."

"Sherlock." John's wide eyes were now fixed staunchly on the steady stare of his best friend.

"You will always deserve me. You will always have me. Never, ever doubt that fact, John. I could never not love you."

John's heart seemed to have become a machine gun in his chest. **RAT-A-TAT! RAT-A-TAT, RAT-A! RAT-A-TAT!** John's eyes moved from Sherlock's eyes to his lips, his kissable mouth. "Sherlock," he breathed. "I…"

The tri-tone text alert of Sherlock's mobile chimed from his pocket. After a short, tense pause, Sherlock pulled it out and read the text.

"It's Lestrade. They've I.D.'ed the girl. And located her French Studies professor. A Dr. Nigel Cushings. Shall we pay him a visit?"

John looked over at his clock. 3:27AM glared at him in angry red letters. "Let's give him a few more hours sleep, Sherlock. Even if he is the murderer, I need a shower and a decent bit of forty winks or I'm likely to keel over during the interrogation, and then stumble to the nearest chair when he runs and you chase after."

Sherlock nodded, brows pinching together as he peered at John.

"Go on then, look him up on Google, or whatever it is you do. I can see myself to the loo." John made a shooing motion with his hands.

Sherlock stood slowly and looked John over once more before walking out of the room. He turned his head and tossed a kind "Use cold water on your shoulder for two minutes and then warm for four on your shoulder and back. It should improve your vasodilation and vasoconstriction," over his shoulder as he descended the staircase.

It felt like a kiss goodnight to John.

* * *

Reference notes:

For more information on the various types of love, and the words we use to describe them in English, I'd suggest beginning here:

ancienthistory. about od/sexualit1/a/LoveMagic .htm (remove the spaces).

Vasodilation and vasoconstriction, or how your veins send blood throughout your body, is in fact aided by periods of alternating temperatures of water. The waters do need to be at certain relative temperatures, and the time spent in each temperature ought to be controlled. This form of water therapy has been used many times to treat pain in deep tissue and muscles, especially in the back and legs.

* * *

Please review!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

* * *

A/N: So, there have been requests(demands) for the porn element of this fic. Well, the fic grew a plot with cases, and Sherlock is very hard to distract from cases. But maybe I can manage it sooner than later. Expect fluff before smut, though.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC, and all rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Doyle respectively.

* * *

Trigger Warning: Dead body, not too descriptive, mentions of John's childhood, Sherlock being excited over indecent things.

* * *

The body had been guillotined.

Guillotined.

The man's wife and two daughters had been 'gifted' with black silk chokers as they slept in a pillow and sheet fort in the living room. "A salute to the victims of Mademoiselle Guillotine," Sherlock informed John in a quiet voice.

John nodded, running on autopilot, trying to get past the fact that when Sherlock had asked to visit Dr. Cushings, he had still been alive.

The guillotine apparatus remained mantled over the bed, a basic wood, rope and steel structure; the steel blade was still lodged in the second half of Dr. Cushings' neck and the mattress. John firmly reminded himself he never wanted to see anything like this again. Even a slit throat seemed more human, less a disembodiment of evil than this. It was fucking creepy.

"So, wife woke, found him. Hysterically called police and you called us?"

Greg nodded. "Anderson's not even here yet, and you're welcome."

"I wasn't going to thank you," Sherlock muttered as he pulled out his magnifier and began examining something on the man's face which John was unable to see thanks to the curtainesque blade.

"I should have clarified, 'You're welcome, John'," Greg answered with a heavenward glance.

John grinned and turned away from the remains on the bed. "So, Greg, how's Alex?"

Greg gave a tiny grin, "Still as cheeky a little bugger as ever. Keeps telling his mum he wants to grow up to be a copper like Daddy."

John grinned back. "I'm sure Sharon loves that."

Greg barked out a laugh, "Not so much."

"So what else is new?"

"Well, I've found a decent place to live on a bachelor with child support payments' budget. Oh, and, Sherlock? Molly sent over the reports from Rose Margote's autopsy."

"Who?" John asked and stepped closer to the Detective Inspector as Sherlock turned to examine the blood splatter along the bedspread.

"The flower girl," Greg continued. "You were right about the tumor. Official cause of death: she drowned in her own blood. The murder weapon was the flowers."

John blinked. "You're kidding?"

"Wish I was." Greg's lip were pinched thin and stress was resting vividly on the man's temples.

Sherlock paced away from the two men and then ambled towards them, gesticulating as he began to speak, "Overwhelming perfume knocked her out, and he laid her out, bedecked like a parade float in the back alley. The smell caused her epistaxis, and the blood flowed down the back of her throat, flooding her lungs until death. You pointed out the blood in her nose at the scene, John, but it had seemed only a symptom of her disease, not the cause of death."

John sighed wearily and leaned back against a clean bit of wall, knees feeling too weak to hold steady. "So. Death by flowers?" John's voice still carried a touch of incredulity.

Sherlock continued as though John had not spoken. "But why prop her out in the alley? He targeted Dr. Cushing at home, a personal attack. But the girl… Was it the most convenient spot? No. With CCTV and an endless supply of witness teeming in the main street just a few metres away…."

Greg scratched the back of his head with the butt of his pen. "Dump site? Killed her somewhere else and then—"

"Move the body _and_ the flowers? Really, Lestrade. No, he killed her there, or left her to die there at any rate. But why there? It's just a basic back alley, not related to the school, or any French name, person, or event…"

"Symbolism?" John suggested.

"Symbolizing what though?" Sherlock spun back to face John and Greg, the edges of his coat flaring out as he did. "What do you think of when I say 'alley'? Greg?"

"Puke. Piss. Drunks and the homeless. Druggies and gang fights." There was no hesitation as the Detective Inspector spoke.

Sherlock nodded. "None of those. John?"

John shifted and looked down at his shoes. "Fighting. Digging about for the odd bit of treasure in tons of trash. Slags. Drugs. Hangovers. Lost things."

Sherlock shook his head. "Urgh, no! What is—Wait! John." John stared up at Sherlock, uncertain of what he had said. "Say all that again."

"Um fights, dumpster-diving. Slags, dru—"

"That's it!"

"Slags?" John asked.

"She was a prostitute?" Greg clarified.

"No. But that's what the killer wants us to know about her. She was giving sex for money, or for better grades, perhaps. And then, the professor's conscience caught up with him. He ended the affair and returned to being faithful to his wife. The wife was all about spending time with her daughters—they camped out in the living room last night—so infidelity and divorce had been on her mind, but she's terribly upset about his death—not just about the danger she and the girls were in, so they've reconciled."

Greg paused as John rolled his eyes. "She is allowed to be upset even if she wanted to kill him, you know?" Greg asked.

Sherlock waved a gloved hand at Lestrade, dismissing his opinion like he was swatting away an annoying fly. "'I'll need to question the wife. Find out if she knew her husband was having an affair."

John pushed up off the wall. "I can do it. I'm not much use to you with a guillotine victim anyhow—he's very dead, you know his name, and you can collect whatever information you want from him for future reference. Although I hope to God this is the only time we'll ever see this."

Sherlock nodded and John walked out into the living room where Mrs. Cushings was holding her two little girls and crying quietly while speaking with one of the younger detectives. "Mrs. Cushings?" he asked, waiting patiently for her to meet his gaze.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to have a few words with you, if I could." John's worked to keep his voice as gentle and compassionate as he was able, and was rewarded by a calm nod from the woman. She embraced her daughters and sat them quietly on the couch, passing them their mugs of tea and pressing a platter of biscuits closer.

Mrs. Cushings gestured to the kitchenette and led John to an tiny breakfast snug. "Who are you?" she asked in a voice thick from crying.

"My name is John Watson. I work with—"

"Sherlock Holmes. I know. The two of you are working on… on this case?" Mrs. Cushing turned and poured herself a glass of water, glanced into the living room at her daughters and sat across the table from John once more.

"Yes. We… Ah, in order to determine all we can, we're going to need any information you can give us." Mrs. Cushings nodded as she swallowed her water. "Do you know a woman by the name of Rose Margote?"

Mrs. Cushings' face hardened before smoothing over. "She is… she is a student in one of my husband's classes. She was…" Mrs. Cushings looked up and faced John directly for the first time since he had spoken to her. Her golden brown eyes seemed dulled by grief, but still bore a strength John recognized from the battlefield—hardened and ready to defend everything that was left—"My husband slept with this girl several times, in return for better grades in his class. Not a new practice, certainly, but a shock to me when I realized." John nodded, choosing to remain silent. "There were many arguments over his time with her. We discussed separation and divorce. In the end, he broke it off with her and we chose to work it out here. I've been sleeping in the girls' room, for the past three weeks, trying to make it seem like Mum's being a bit more fun than normal rather than anything else." She stared past John now, watching what she could see of the forensics team turning her home into a series of detailed reports. "Seems pointless now."

"Hardly," John replied. "My dad was the same way. Except, my mum wasn't sleeping around, she was usually too drunk to leave the house."

Mrs. Cushings looked at John for a long few moments before nodding. "What helped you then? What would help my girls?"

John sighed and fisted his hands on his knees. "My mum wasn't a mean drunk, just an unhappy person for anyone to be around, let alone her kids. So Dad always told us to make our own breakfasts, go to school, go to our sporting events or practices, come home and work on schoolwork or study until he got home. Then my dad and I would make supper and do the clean-up together. Harry, my sister, would do long walks with him." He glanced up at her and felt the words pulled out from long-buried memories like he was tossing a life-preserver to a drowning woman. "He never lied to us and told us Mum was just sick or fine or anything. He told us the truth, and asked of us only the things we could do. He made sure we had time alone with him to talk, time to make memories with him. He couldn't change what had happened, but he did give us better things to remember instead."

Mrs. Cushings nodded at John, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned and a little less pinched. "Thank you."

John nodded. "Were… Are there any other students or coworkers your husband mentioned often?"

Mrs. Cushings thought for a minute before shaking her head. "Not that I can think of. I'll be sure to let the police know if I think of anything, though."

"Of course; you already to know to ask for D.I. Lestrade?" At her nod he stood and held out his hand to shake hers goodbye. "Then all I can offer you are my sincerest condolences and the assurance that we won't rest until your husband's murderer has been caught."

"Thank you," Mrs. Cushing said softly as she stood and walked him out of the kitchenette.

* * *

E/N: More interesting points of interest!

Mademoiselle Guillotine was a young woman in history who was claimed to have been forced to drink the blood of guillotine victims in order to save her father's life. The young woman insisted that there was nothing more than wine in the glass, but the blood-drinking story is of course much more popular. It was also considered the height of fashion in England during the French Revolution to wear black chokers around the neck—in the same the place the blade would fall—to show one's support for those who were slaughtered.

Dun, dun, dun! So who will be next? And who is this murderer? Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

* * *

A/N: It's been a bit longer than I expected between updates, but I've had a long week. Knackered and ready for the weekend. Hope you all enjoy this trip through the crime!

Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC and all rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Doyle respectively.

* * *

Triggers: References to gambling addiction, (very) vague reference to drinking and drug addictions, and no resolution to the case. As of yet.

* * *

It was a quiet cab ride from the Cushings' apartment to the morgue. Sherlock relied rather strongly on Molly's talent and skill as a pathologist, but he would never want to not see the body himself—for anything higher than a six, of course.

John tapped his fingers on his knees agitatedly as the cab wound its way through the early morning London traffic. Sherlock was busily conducting research through his mobile's web browser, eyes flicking across the screen faster than his thumbs could scroll through the text.

John exhaled slowly, trying to displace the quiet sense of grief his interview with the professor's widow had renewed. _Was it wrong that in the face of a grieving spouse I thought first of Dad and Mum rather than of Mary?_

Sherlock's right hand left his mobile and reached out for John. John looked at the long, white fingers stretched out to him before he placed his left hand onto them. Sherlock squeezed his hand once and rubbed his thumb across the back of John's hand.

John nodded at Sherlock—the man wasn't even looking at him and he saw everything!—before turning to look out the window. As St. Bart's came into view, Sherlock winced once at the tightening of John's grip around his whitening knuckles. "John," he said in a quiet voice.

"Sherlock," John whispered, still not looking away from the grey building. "Right. Let's go." John pulled his wallet out to pay the cabbie before he climbed out, tugging Sherlock out behind him. The pair walked through the halls of St. Bart's hand-in-hand until they found Molly.

"Oh! Sherlock! John! How are you?" Molly had lost her nervousness around Sherlock since she had helped him fake his death, but she seemed awash in guilt every time she saw John. "Here for the flower girl then?"

Sherlock nodded brusquely by way of answering both questions and advanced toward the body waiting on the slab. John took in the body, different and somehow more human under the harsh glare of the artificial lights; in the dark alley she had seemed ethereal and idyllic, an elven princess returning to her people, perhaps. "She's so small… without all the flowers, I mean." John's voice was quieter there, as it always was in the morgue. The place had always seemed to demand respect—even back in his first year of med school—like a library or a church. Or a line of filled coffins on an airstrip in the middle of the desert, waiting for their tour of duty to close.

"She's certainly the best-smelling body I've had to work with," Molly nattered. "The oil from the flowers was very strong. You can still smell it in some places, over the chemicals."

John nodded politely as he moved into a comfortable parade rest, distracting his mind with a grocery list for his next Tesco run—milk, tea, biscuits, new kettle, a few fruits, pasta…-as Sherlock minutely examined the body. As Sherlock moved confidently through his examination, John set aside his mental list, and began watching Sherlock.

The man was fascinating in all he did. While inspecting the corpse, his face shifted through an assortment of expressions, like a kaleidoscope in a washing machine. Turning and twisting, he was always moving, his skin stretching and folding across his cheekbones, smoothing his lips and pinching them, brow furrowing and softening, eyes bright and flashing the whole time. Sherlock painted a perfect masterpiece—a master conquering a riddle, a genius stroking puzzle pieces into a coherent form.

There was only one word to describe the power Sherlock wielded over John. John'd had a fling, back at uni, with a girl—cute, friendly, smart—who had explained it to him. "When you look at something truly brilliant, and you feel as though your whole life has been altered or recentered, as though you have been given something completely separate from yourself because of it, that's _duende_. All art is built on it, and some very rare people can inspire it." There was no doubt in John's mind Sherlock was the single greatest source of _duende_ to ever exist, and he was shattered by the possibility of taking his own unskilled hand to the sculpture, painting, clock, puzzle, and complete mystery that was his best friend.

Dare he mar the canvas? If small, initial blunders evoked or promised euphoria? Could he ever be enough to make this brilliance burn brighter?

* * *

"Miss Wynters."

A petite blonde slowed on the lawn, turned to face her caller, and stopped to allow John and Sherlock time to approach her. "Yes?" Her tone was polite, though her stance was impatient.

"You are Miss Marion Wynters, of Dr. Cushings' 11am Tuesday French Philosophy II lectures?" Sherlock queried, tucking his gloved hands into his coat pockets.

"I am. I also have a 10 am Wednesday study session. Which will begin in fourteen minutes. Excuse me." She stepped around John, but Sherlock flung his hand out and blocked her path.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is Joh—"

"John Watson. I know. I've read the blog. Liked the pink one, haven't taken a cab in ages. Where's the hat?" John chuckled and Sherlock grimaced. Marion sighed. "I assume you're here to ask me about Dr. Cushings? I heard that he'd been murdered. Terrible that, since he was one of the few professors I'd respected."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side a bit, reminding John of a cat tracking the movement of prey. "Hmm. Is there anything from your classes with him which stuck in your memory? Anything you could tell us?"

Marion shook her head slightly. "No. Well. I suppose, seeing as it's you…" Marion cocked her head to the side, an impish mimicry of Sherlock's behavior. "Are you familiar with _L'appel du vide_, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stilled and stared hard at the girl, mouth twisting down into a violent grimace. "Highly overrated and patently false," he spat out.

Marion shrugged unrepentantly. "Well. You would know."

John chose to ignore whatever barb she'd stuck into Sherlock's craw. He'd dig it out later, after a small use of Google. "So, you have no further information on your professor you believe would be helpful to us?"

"No." Marion glanced at John for a moment before looking back at Sherlock. "Sorry." She didn't sound sorry in the slightest. Marion turned her wristwatch to read it and sighed again. "My study partners await, gentlemen. Good day."

John and Sherlock watched her march off, clearly not intimidated by either of them. Out of pure curiosity, John asked, "In your experience, is a ballsy, impossible temperament a short person thing? To sort of make up for the difference?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow in question. "Like, my sister always loomed over me when she wanted to intimidate me into something. I just became unintimidatable. So, is it a short person thing?"

Sherlock half-laughed. "Hardly. Or you'd be just impossible to live with." John grinned. He _had_ asked for that one. "Come, John. We've got some more students to hunt down.

* * *

John was firmly decided; college kids were idiotic, narcissistic, belligerent, rude little shits. After speaking with forty-seven of the fifty-three students (the remaining six included Rose and five students Sherlock had insisted couldn't be responsible—"Look at his trainers, John. Obviously not guilty."), John and Sherlock made their way to the offices of one of Cushings' colleagues.

"Oh, yes. Heard he'd kicked the bucket."

"I do believe the bucket kicked him, Dr. Fahren." Sherlock's dry humor seemed to amuse the man, a rotund, red-cheeked man with a bald head and balder face who was the head of the philosophy department.

"Of course, of course. Now, what did you need to know?"

"Did Dr. Cushing seem nervous or agitated to you? Did he seem afraid of anything, or aware that he would soon die?"

Dr. Fahren wrinkled his massive brow, the skin digging trenches and creating patches of skin which looked like the eyebrows he lacked. "Can't say so. He didn't seem any different to me. But then I've always disliked the man."

John stood straighter at the comment, casting a quick glance at Sherlock. "Well of course I didn't do it. But then, I suppose I'd say that whether or not I had done." The great wrinkled brow retreated towards his scalp, loosing ranks as it did so. "The man taught philosophy with a passion, but didn't seem to think that any of the rules of a functioning society, or a functioning member of society—no matter which method of thinking one prescribes to—applied to him! There were always suspicions that he was dallying with students—not a crime if the student isn't in your class and you're not married—but we could never prove it."

A dark pause seemed to fill the man, burning his eyes from caramel to singed syrup as his shoulders seemed to roll forward and in. "I'm glad he's dead."

John blinked and took a step back, glancing at the open window and up to the whitish-grey sky above. The juxtaposition of the demeanor of the man before him and the cool day without the window skittered across his mind like a hedgehog on ice.

"Well," Sherlock's voice cut through the tension, returning normalcy to the room. "I'm sure your singular opinion might cast suspicion on you from the eyes of NSY, but I find your honesty refreshing. Thank you sir, for your valuable time. We shall be in touch."

John and Sherlock walked away from the offices, and John waited until the grounds were behind them and they were heading to Baker Street in a cab before he asked, "So, Dr. Fahren isn't guilty, just mildly psychotic?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly, John. The man has motive, but no means. He was hosting a fundraiser the night his coworker was killed, and was buttering up the relatives the night before that."

"Buttering up the…?" John paused. "How can you know that one?"

Sherlock flashed a grin at John, which did something funny to John's lungs and heart, but he ignored it to listen, "His desk, John. Surely you noticed all the photographs were pointed at us, in the chairs—not at the man who sat daily in the desk. Each picture was of Dr. Fahren as a child with various members of his family. Easy enough to see the similarities. I'm sure you noticed that much at least?" John nodded, vaguely recalling the family photos he hadn't paid any attention to.

Sherlock continued, "Why would the man have rather expensive frames with old photos in them on his desk, pointed towards his visitors and the door? Obviously, the relative in the at least one of those pictures had come by for a visit, and probably had something along the nature of a will to discuss. Why else would the man have taken the time away from his lamentable habit of poker? Except to secure more funds?"

"Alright. But where did you pull the poker bit from?"

Sherlock lifted his hand, showing John a red poker chip. "Lying on his desk. There were more in his open briefcase on the floor. A round every now and then wouldn't leave him bringing his 'trophies' to the office. But, a constant habit, with something physical to be kept nearby during the dry spells… Addiction is a cruel mistress, John."

"I know." John purposefully loosened his jaw before continuing. "Alright, so Fahren got's motive but no means. Has anyone got the means?"

"We'll have to wait and see, John. Wait and see."

John sighed. "Greg's not going to like hearing that." Sherlock only hmm'ed, so John threw in the big hook. "Anderson won't mind though. He'll go about gloating over you being stumped or something."

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?" John's voice was completely innocent.

"I know what you're doing."

John grinned. "Is it working?"

* * *

Notes: Foreign terms:

_Duende_ (Spanish): n., the mysterious power that a work of art has to deeply move a person

_L'appel du vide_ (French): n., the instinctive urge to jump from high places

E/N: Only a few more chapters of this particular case. Any guesses as to John's blog title for this one? Keep calm and review!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much for all the wonderful feedback! Here's the next chapter, a bit longer than all the rest, and not for reading while eating. Trust me. Just because I managed to eat while writing this means that Sherlock and I are more alike than merits thinking about.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC and all rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Doyle respectively.

* * *

Trigger: Detailed descriptions of a dead body, cannibalism, mutilation of a body, a slight attack of PTSD, abandoned pasta, and just all around not a happy chapter.

* * *

John was paying his monthly visit to Mary when he got Sherlock's text: 'Lestrade texted. New body. SH' John sighed. 'Address?' he texted as he walked back to the lane which wound through the stone-dotted lawn. An almost immediate response told him where to send the cabbie and John was soon trundling off towards Sherlock and the fresh corpse.

Neither man had said much the night before, Sherlock trapped in the puzzles of the case, John worn out from the trek around the college, the interviewing so many people, and the weary reminder at each turn of the decapitated professor lying in his bed who might have been saved if he hadn't been so tired. It wasn't logical, John knew; after all, it was perfectly logical to let the man sleep some more while John got sleep himself. It still gnawed at him, like an insistent scratching on the side of his hand, insisting his attention and reminding John of every man he hadn't been able to put back together, king's men and king's horses be damned.

He knew Mary would hardly begrudge him the abruptness of his departure; she certainly hadn't complained when Sherlock flitted John in and out of their home. She had been one of the most understanding, unselfish people John had ever known. Not that she never put her foot down over things that mattered; it's just that she agreed with John—most things paled in comparison with Sherlock's black-and-white levels of importance. Helping Sherlock usually meant stopping a murder, returning a kidnapped child, or dismantling a human trafficking ring. How could a Sunday dinner with the parents be of greater importance with that? Feeling slightly less stressed, as he always did after a visit to Mary's grave, John relaxed for the remainder of the cab ride.

* * *

John closed his eyes as he panted and gasped for air but that didn't make it any better. "Didn't Sherlock warn you?" Greg asked, patting John on the back as he recovered. John shook his head wearily, wondering why Greg even bothered to ask. Of course Sherlock hadn't asked, the body hadn't bothered him, and since John was a doctor and a soldier and usually able to handle any body unless the victim was a child—Sherlock had seemed shocked by how violently John had reacted when they found the seven year old girl who had been beaten and raped to death three months prior—he would never have assumed John would react this way. John's only small piece of gratitude was that he never ate before going to visit Mary, so there hadn't been too much to force its way from his stomach to the cement. "Christ," Greg muttered. "Do you want to leave or…"

"No," John bit out, slowing his panting and deliberately getting his breathing under control and forced himself to stand up on his trembling knees. That had more to do with pride than the fact Greg sounded wary of not having John there to temper Sherlock. "Where is Sherlock?"

"With the other body."

"The othe-?" John put his hands back on the wall and began counting which bricks seemed the most mud-colored, forcing himself not to think of the vivid details seared into his mind of the body lying three metres away. "Um, is the other body… di the other… is it?"

Greg sighed. "No. No, the other one is much less…"

"Gnawed at?" John looked up to find a pale Greg nodding.

"The second body was burned, partially. The man's trousers were drenched in an accelerant of some kind, while the rest of him was treated with an anti-inflammatory."

John coughed out a disturbed laugh. "Liar, liar?"

"So it seems. They also wrapped hedgerow briar all around the man's wrists, tying him to a pole in the center of the room. There was more of the plant in the man's mouth and down his throat, on top of having had his tongue split down the middle to the base of his mouth." John forced his eyes to remain open and willed the mental image of the forked tongue away. "Sherlock says he died from the smoke inhalation." Greg winced. "It was the smoke that caused someone to call 999 and got us sent here to begin with."

"So, not related to the professor and the student?"

"I didn't think so, but Sherlock disagrees."

John nodded tersely and forced himself to turn and examine the body behind him, trying to think of it as a sick, twisted puzzle piece and not a formerly living, breathing human being. The body was of a young man—probably in his early twenties—and aside from the cause of death on his torso and his facial expression, nothing was wrong with him. Heavy blonde brows were pulled together and brown eyes stared blankly up over blood-dotted cheeks, and a mouth twisted open in an empty scream. The man's hands were unbound, and his legs were free—a single track mark in the man's neck showed how the killer had managed to mutilate an unbound victim. Whatever drug the killer had chosen, it may have paralyzed the man's limbs, but he had clearly been completely aware of what was going on and capable of feeling it.

Trapped in a drugged prison, like a grounded child pressed nose and palms up against the paned glass of a window, this victim had seen and felt each moment before he finally died. John could tell it hadn't been quick. John breathed through his mouth, teeth clenched as turned his gaze the gaping wound on the man's bare chest. A ring of visible blood, muscle, sinew, organs, and bone had been made around the man's thoracic cavity. The congealed mess would not have been so bad—even with the heart, which had been removed from the body when the murderer had reached through the circle and up through the ribs to tear it out and rest it on the solar plexus of the body, creating a demented sort of bull's-eye—except that the circle had been made by a human mouth. The killer had eaten away or chewed and spit out, it was hard to tell, a three inch wide circle on the body.

John's stomach flipped again, at the thought of being unable to move as someone went and gnawed him open before reaching up and pulling his heart out to hold it before his face so the man could see his own heart pulsing in his killer's fist before he died. Reminding himself that if he saw everything this time he wouldn't have to look at this body ever again, John forced himself to be thorough.

Looking over the body one last time, John noticed a glint of metal on the heart. Looking closer he saw why. Embedded in the soft flesh, was a wedding band, thickly coated in several layers of congealing blood. "God…"

"What is it?" Greg was standing back, as close to the body as he could force himself to be.

"Did Sherlock point out the ring?" John's voice was thick and his throat was raw.

Sherlock himself answered that as he entered the room. "Of course I did. Come, John, we're done here. Lestrade, let me know when you've I.D.'ed the bodies."

Greg nodded as he and his team were left with the bodies.

* * *

John knew he would have nightmares that night, but he had not expected what would happen later that evening. He was preparing a pot of pasta sans sauce, not prepared to see anything red and pulpy in the mess should he need to vomit later on, when Sherlock finally left his mind palace and began ranting to him. "Why, John?"

"Hmm? Oh, I'm making pasta for dinner. Just a small bit. Want some?"

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response. "It's like a choreographed set of murders, all victims carefully selected for the roles they'll play, a unifying theme in the murders, and yet no reason or motive for any one person to kill all of them for these purposes!"

John sighed and rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the kinks he'd gotten in them from the memory of the body from earlier. "What purposes, Sherlock?"

"Well, obviously, the lying priest had been selling shady marriage licenses, claiming he could marry them in the Church at a fee, when their marriage would not have normally stood ground."

John turned down the heat on the stove, and turned to hunt down the colander. "What priest, Sherlock?"

"The one from the last crime scene."

"So the wedding band wasn't his then?"

"What? Oh. No, not that body, the other one. The forked tongue and crispy trousers. Turns out he was a priest, and when I did a bit of digging, it turns out he would draft marriage licenses for people who were still married to someone else, or other couples who wanted a wedding that the Church wouldn't recognize."

"Thus the lying symbolism of the tongue and pants. Ok. But why the briars?"

"Hedgerow briars are a symbol of marriage as well. Villagers used to block a couple's path to the altar until bribed to stand aside to symbolize the struggles the couple would face together. Sentiment."

John shook his head as he bent over to look in the lower cabinets. "Fine. And the other one?"

"Common jewel thief, nothing fancy. An honest jewel thief at that. He never over or undersold anything he filched. He certainly didn't deserve to die like that."

John stood, colander in hand. "Sherlock, no one deserves to die like that."

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed in a sound which could either be agreement or dissent.

John set the colander into the sink and poured the contents of the pot into it, holding himself away from the rising wafts of steam. "Alright, but why was he… killed that way?"

"Symbolism. The ring could mean a deal he'd made, or be part of a catch he'd taken, but it wasn't. The ring was his. His wife's initials and the wedding date were inscribed on the inside. But, that ring, plus the ring our murderer chewed into him… Add to that the priest making fake marriages, the girl covered in flowers, and the unfaithful husband. What do you get, John?"

John paused in his shaking of the colander, letting the remaining water drip down into the sink. "It's a wedding!" With a jolt, he put the colander down and turned to face his flat mate. "Ring bearer, flower girl, priest, groom… all we need is the bride."

Sherlock nodded. "Or a best man and maid of honor depending on the choreographer."

John blinked at Sherlock, a cold chill running down his spine at the word. "Choreographer?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, John. The mastermind who's pulling all the strings. The one that's deciding who dies and which figure they'll represent."

John's hand was trembling full stop, his fingers tingled like they were going to sleep or waking up, and his knees felt weak. Small pieces of his vision seemed gone, as though he were looking at a sheet and someone had pinched small sections of it here and there. "Sh'lock?" John frowned at how tinny and weak his voice came out.

Sherlock looked at john worriedly, and was by his side in four large strides. "John?"

"Don't. Not again," John managed, surprised to find his whole body trembling.

Sherlock pulled John into his arms and sat beside him on the floor in front of the sink. "John?"

"Promise."

Sherlock pulled John more tightly to him. "I don't know what you're asking, John. What do I need to promise?"

"Don't die." John voice quavered and gasped around the words. "Don't leave. He's dead. Stay."

Sherlock's body loosened some of its tension and the genius ran his hands over John's arms and back. "Oh, John." He pressed a soft kiss to the shorter man's brow. "I promise." The lanky detective tried to wrap himself completely around the man he loved, proving concretely how resolutely he would stay. "I'm not going anywhere, John. I'm staying with you. I promise."

* * *

E/N: Enjoy these footnotes and then go review!

The thoracic cavity is the portion of the torso from the diaphragm (a membrane which keeps our lungs, heart, and esophagus separate from the remainder of our organs) to the shoulders. The rest of the torso is known as the abdominal cavity, which houses the bulk of our digestive and all our reproductive organs. Side note: you can actually pull a man's heart out and hold it—still pulsing—in front of him, before he dies. One simply has to cut into the stomach, reach up through the ribs and yank. I have watched way too much myth busters/history channel. I am unrepentant.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

* * *

A/N: Yes, the last chapter was gory, this one will be less so—but just this once, dears. This one shouldn't be a problem. PS-I told you my research for this fic should scare whoever checks up on me. Now you know why. A huge shout-out to all those who've reviewed, your feedback means a lot to me and I want to thank each of you for your love-hate relationship with this fic. Soundtrack: "Beast" by Nico Vega and "Safe and sound" by Capital Cities, for those who wonder.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC and all rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Doyle respectively.

* * *

Trigger: The moustache is addressed, childhood memories are hashed out, needy John/John!whump, sentimentally-challenged Sherlock, and a step in the right direction.

* * *

John lost track of time as he was rocked in Sherlock's long, impossibly strong arms. His lungs hiccoughed against his ribs, and when he could see anything it was coated in a healthy serving of black spots. A constant buzzing filled his ears, playing counter harmony to the melody of Sherlock's voice. He had no idea what Sherlock was saying, but it sounded nice.

John shook his head at that last thought—Sherlock sounding nice usually meant trouble—and shook his head once more for good measure.

Now his head ached fiercely, but his mind seemed clearer with the introduction of discomfort and pain. The headache soon brought friends to the party as John's chest began to ache, his jaw complained of being too clenched, his throat felt too raw, and his eyes were sore with tears.

"…John. I've promised. Moriarty is dead. He's dead. I dismantled his web and there is nothing left of it. I burned it to the ground. It's over. It's done. You don't need to worry. I'm never leaving you again. I will never kill myself, John. I swear. Please. I'm lost without my blogger. My friend. John. My John."

John blinked slowly, letting the words of tender sentiment from the man who abhorred it to settle him. With a sigh, John's breathing slowed to normal, the buzzing passed from his hearing completely, and his vision cleared fully.

"John? Oh, John." Sherlock's arms pulled John closer, pinching tightly once before he let the man go.

John didn't let him get too far. "Not yet. Please." John's voice was muffled against the fabric covering Sherlock's shoulder as his fingers tightened on the detective's arms, pulling them back around his trembling form.

"Of course." Sherlock began slowly running his fingers over John's skin—no doubt cataloguing the mental monograph "Skin of One John H. Watson, by Touch". Long fingers painted tears across cheeks, measured nose and lips, and seemed to be counting the hairs on John's head.

In time, John moved to sit across from Sherlock, mirroring his position against the counter opposite the corner from him, their feet and legs tangling somewhere in the middle. "I'm sorry."

"No. You don't have to be."

"I know. Thanks. I'm still sorry. I just…"

The manipulative style of the planned and connected murders forced you to recall Moriarty, and on top of the stomach-jarring vision from earlier today..."

"I handled it poorly, yeah."

"Yes," Sherlock answered, each knowing neither was referring to the crime scene which made John sick. Silence colored the flat a touch greyer for a few moments. "John?"

John turned his gaze from the worn toes of his socks to look at the pensive face under the sink. "I am sorry. I had to do it—you know that. But I am sorry to have hurt you. And to have destroyed your trust in me. Not totally—you'll still chase right behind me in a crime scene or chase—but where it really matters to you—sentimentally—where I could hurt you again."

John didn't bother denying it. "I forgave you, Sherlock. I did it a long time ago."

"I know. It was the day you shaved that god-awful moustache."

John chuckled. "Yeah. And I am trusting you with the messier bits again. Hell. I just… I don't know."

Sherlock nodded. He started to reach out his hand to touch John's knee, but pulled it back to run it through his curls, in a gesture John recognized as anxiety. "Is that why you want more time to think?"

John mulled over the statement a bit, then shook his head. "No. I trust you enough to believe you when you speak of your thoughts and emotions, Sherlock, rare as that is. Hell, I just went to pieces in front of you and then you pulled me back together and I didn't run off to hide and lick my wounds in peace. We're past that, Sherlock." John sighed and closed his tired eyes. "I think I don't trust myself."

When John opened his eyes again, he found a rare sight; Sherlock seemed to still be puzzled by that remark. "I'll put some tea on. Help me up?"

* * *

"When I was very young, I was in a car crash. I hit my head pretty hard." John's fingers wrapped around his steaming, red RAMC mug with a familiar curl. "I seemed perfectly fine through all the tests—mild concussion, slight fever. Nothing to worry overmuch about. Well, for seven weeks after the incident, my family was extra careful with me, making me stay in bed and play or read quietly in my room."

Sherlock stared at John over his own untouched mug of tea, allowing John time to sip at his hot drink, and collect his thoughts. "The only person who came to visit me was my friend Geoff. We had been mates as long as either of us could remember, playing soldiers, pirates, knights, and cowboys all day long like the trouble-causing ruffians we were. We'd come home oftener than not, coated head-to-toe in dust and dirt an hour after sundown, grinning the tired grins of boys who've played and run out all their energy."

When John looked up to see if Sherlock had any comments, he found a small smile on the detectives face and watched as the man stretched out a hand to trace a small scar on John's knuckles, a memento of one particularly gruesome guerilla battle in the woods. "Well, anyhow, Geoff and I played quieter versions of all our old games, never leaving my room. He built a fort over my bed, and we pretended to be Indians home from hunting buffalo, troops on the road, or space-travellers in an alien-designed ship."

"Without Geoff, those seven weeks before Dad and the doctors said I could roughhouse again would have been hell. As we were leaving my final x-ray appointment, I asked Dad if Geoff and I could go down to the river again."

"Geoff was dead. Had died in the car accident." Sherlock's voice was gentle, but curious.

"Yeah. My Dad flipped out and turned us right around to go back into the doctor's office. I answered all the hundreds of questions about our adventures these past couple weeks, still not believing that he was dead. I still didn't believe it when they took me to his grave. After all, I had seen him with my own two eyes, hadn't I?"

John paused, eyes a little hollow. "He hadn't died in the accident. Where I'd gotten a concussion, he'd been shunted out of the vehicle and into a concrete-induced coma. All those weeks we were playing together, he was really lying on a hospital bed, breathing borrowed oxygen. The last night I saw him, we laughed and fell asleep together, and I woke up alone. His parents had pulled the plug."

John's jaw tightened. "When I told them how he had played with me the whole time… I think they lost it a bit, hearing how he had been so full of life when he had seemed so empty."

"Geoff is why you chose to become a doctor. And a soldier."

John nodded stiffly. "He's also why I don't trust myself."

"Because somehow, he was with you in your room while hooked up to life-support across town?"

"Because he was gone, and I thought he was still with me. We were still having adventures, still riding dragons and being astronauts. Not dying and healing."

"I see." Sherlock's fingers were steepled under his chin, but his brow remained wrinkled, answers avoiding him for the time being. "I don't understand, though."

John nodded at the quiet tone of Sherlock's voice, smiling at the reverence with which Sherlock seemed to treat this subject—as though John's heart were the greatest puzzle in the world. "I'm not sure I do either. It's just every time I want to come to you and tell you yes, I'm reminded of the days where I and my dead friend chased each other around my room. I was deliriously happy then. But I was devastated for years after." John sighed. "I lost you once Sherlock, and when you came back, I didn't care if you were real or my imagination. I just had you back and that was enough. But to… To give myself completely to you, to catch you fully myself… And then if it weren't real…"

John picked his gaze up from his tea dregs and up to the burning stare of his best friend. "I would eat my gun the moment I realized it had all been a dream, Sherlock. No maybe about it."

Sherlock nodded, mouth opening to speak, "I'm real, John. I'm real." And then Sherlock's lips were pressed against his.

John pressed his lips firmly against those soft lips, insisting on all Sherlock could give to the kiss. Pulling back to breathe, John answered, "I know. I know, Sherlock. You are more real than anyone or anything I've ever known. I am never more alive than when I am with you." John pressed his lips against Sherlock's once again, seeking the tingling sensation which covered his lips and tongue with each brush of contact with the flushed detective. "But I still feel that fear—even though I know it is irrational. I can't help it, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded and pulled John's head in for another kiss. "So. Are you going to listen to that fear and stop kissing me or will you choose the dangerous path and—"

John blinked up at Sherlock as he spoke, mouth opening and closing as though he wished to speak. John lifted his hands to Sherlock's face, stilling his words before slowly tracing the cheekbones he commented on so lovingly. Then the soldier's fingers invaded Sherlock's hair and tugged him forward into a fiercer breed of kiss than the two had shared.

When they finally pulled apart, Sherlock chuckled breathlessly at a grinning John. "As ever, John, I say danger, and here you are."

* * *

E/N: Also, a little after I post this chapter I will be changing the title of this fic. The current title was intended for a one shot of the first chapter, but clearly I'm not going to stop this any time soon, so I'm going to make it simpler and more apropos. Soon you will be reading "Could Be Dangerous". Please review!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

* * *

A/N: This chapter is not for the weak of heart; though there is decidedly no cannibalism, there will be forks in bodies. Sorry for the gap in updating, but I hope the variety of themes in this chapter will more than compensate. Thanks once more to all my lovely reviewers; I love you guys!

Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC and all rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Doyle respectively.

* * *

Trigger: Heavy (and unrepentant) Anderson-bashing, (sort of) another dead body, my apologies to the House of Lords, descriptive torture using commonplace items, and in the spirit of full disclosure-cliffhanger.

* * *

"I just don't understand how this level of stupidity has managed to keep himself alive this long."

"Oi!"

Sherlock didn't even allow himself a hint of a smile, but John couldn't help himself, the corners of his mouth tilting up at the outraged expression on Anderson's face. "Anderson, you've managed to lose a body—the whole body!—while not removing it from the crime scene. I'm not sure if that's so spectacularly stupid that it's impossible to have happened by accident, or if you really haven't evolved past fish status!"

Greg, instead of mediating between the two, was busy at the bottom of the incline communicating over walkies with the diving crew which was fishing for the body in the Thames.

"Well, it's not as though I did it on purpose or any—"

"I almost wish you had, at least then I could strangle you without getting arrested for it. I might even get a medal for my services."

"Sherlock," John's voice was thick with humor, but also held a steely hint of reprimand.

"John, stop giggling. We're at a crime scene."

John giggled a bit at Sherlock's tone. "Well, yes, but with the body accidently shoved down the incline and into the river, what exactly are we going to do here except giggle and yell at Anderson?" Sherlock had no answer for that, full force of his glare and scowl focused on the forensic doctor—and what school was responsible for giving that idiot a sheepskin?—across from him. "All right. How about you just get the details from Lestrade later—after they've found something in the water. We already have the initial description and some photos on your phone. That's enough to be working with for now."

Sherlock didn't move; Anderson was beginning to tremble, and Sherlock began to smile. John sighed. "Let's just go home, Sherlock. I want a cuppa, a spot of telly, and more paracetamol for my shoulder. You can snipe at Anderson later." Sherlock shifted a bit, but continued his scathing stare-down. "Just think of how many times he'll have to tell people he did this, how many times he'll have to write this report down, and how long you can lord this over his head. Besides, he's caught in panic over it without you at the moment. Why not draw it out for later?"

"Aren't you always telling me to be a better person?" Sherlock had turned to look at John over his shoulder, mouth quirked up in a full grin.

"Yes." John struggled to keep the smile off his own face. "Well, he did lose a whole body at a crime scene."

Sherlock laughed. "All right, John. Let's go home. I've already seen everything I can here. Including the drag marks the body made as it slid downhill, and Anderson's footprints leading up to the former rest site."

John couldn't help it anymore and grinned at the madman across from him. "Enough. Fetch us a cab, genius, since they seem to obey you so abruptly."

* * *

"So, tell me about the body Anderson kicked into the Thames."

Both men grinned at each other before Sherlock began listing the description of the most recent victim. "What we know: our victim was a woman, dressed in a navy blue business suit, the one heel she was still wearing in the photo was sturdy, no-nonsense kind of shoe, so perhaps some sort of public office." Sherlock held out his mobile to John, where he recognized the familiar face of a serious-looking woman was portrayed in all its pixelated glory.

"Sherlock, you didn't recognize her face in the photo?"

The detective turned to face him, eyebrows raised. "No. Should I have?"

John spluttered. "She's in the bloody House of Lords!"

"Popular culture has never been my forte, John. Too tedious."

John rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "Whatever. Alright, so the lady wore sensible clothes. But how was she killed?"

Sherlock's fingers pulled up and together, joining forces under his chin. "Her hands were bound behind her—simple rope, available at any home improvement store. She was made to kneel, and was delivered one shot to the back of the head."

"Execution style."

"Precisely."

John paused for a long moment before he ventured, "Not very bride-like in any of the symbolism, was it? Is she related to the other bodies or…?"

"She is. Maid of honor perhaps? An honorable death, to be sure. Less than honorable treatment of her body afterword, however. Thanks to New Scotland Yard's finest."

"Hey. He's not here to whimper at you. Let it go. For now."

Sherlock wasn't paying attention, face still in animated incredulity. "How does one accidently kick a body into the bloody Thames while working as a forensics unit on an active crime scene? Is Anderson just a trained monkey—well, trained monkeys would do better work than him."

John just shook his head and slipped into his coat. "I'm off to the shop for milk. Need anything?"

"Anderson's brain. I should do tests. Science and the general public will thank me. I might even get knighted. Again."

John shook his head, unable to stop grinning. "So nothing for you then, ta."

* * *

It was the sobs which distracted him. John shifted the plastic bag of milk down a bit and turned to locate the woman he could hear crying. He located her, tucked in the entrance of an alley, wearing a white dress barely visible through the grime which was liberally coating it.

"Hello?" John stepped towards her attempting to help the proverbial damsel in distress when the bride spun around to face him. Or, was spun to face him, rather.

"Don't speak." John dropped his bag of milk to the ground where the plastic container finally bent with enough force to pop its lid and spill out into the bag. "Walk into the alley, Doctor Watson. We've got a bit of a trek ahead of us."

John marched forward, matching each backwards step Marion Wynters took as she dragged the woman in white with her, pistol glinting beside the frightened woman's temple.

No one spoke as John followed the two women into a nondescript looking house. "Lock the door behind you, Doctor. Good man. Now, come and sit in this chair. There's some rope on the table. Fancy fastening your feet to the chair legs for me? I'm sure our lovely bride here would appreciate your cooperation."

John was already seated on the red, wooden chair, bent in half as he knotted the rope around first his left and then his right ankles, securing his legs to the chair. His mouth was closed in a grim line, gestures swift and stiff, reverting to a soldier's steely-faced façade as the college student across from him waved the glinting gun intermittently between him and the whimpering woman in white.

"Excellent. Now, if you could tie your right hand to the chair, I'll allow Janie here to have the honor of binding your left hand. Good girl, Janie. You're nearly done now; it'll all be over for you soon. You'll like that won't you? Not having to be afraid? Tie the rope tighter, wouldn't want any mistakes in the plan, would we?"

Once bound firmly to the chair, Marion pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and passed it to Janie. "Stuff that in his mouth." John fought back the gag which instinctively rose from his throat and bit into the cloth determined not give any ground.

"All right, Janie. You're nearly done. Remember, Scout'll be watching you, so do exactly as I say. You're to bring this note to 221B Baker Street and then you may go wherever you like—NSY for all I care. Just deliver this message to Mr. Holmes, and you'll be free to go. Deviate from that plan and a sniper will kill you before you take two steps in the wrong direction. Got it?"

Marion was cool and collected, and looked like just another person doing something perfectly ordinary—jotting down a few words onto a page—as she threatened Janie's life flippantly. "Now." Marion stood from her slightly hunched position and she handed the scrap of paper—the letters "RL C" visible to John—to the girl. "Go."

* * *

John had received training in military, a series of coping techniques for enduring torture, for keeping insanity at bay; he;d never needed them before—not in the hot sand of Afghanistan, elbow deep in sliced intestines, not while strapped with semtex at the pool, and not even while Sherlock was supposedly dead. But he needed them now.

He counted his breaths as the small, blonde woman took the silverware from the drawer and lined them up on the kitchen table beside him. "Alright, Doctor, I don't really need you anymore, so I've decided to just kill some time and play. Will you play my games with me?"

Pain, like being shot again, but almost worse, exploded in his thigh as Marion drove a fork through the meat of his thigh above his knee. He screamed, muffled through the handkerchief. "You see, Doctor, while the handkerchief helps me—no one to turn up to our party early because of your screams—it also helps you. Wouldn't want you to swallow your tongue, or bite it clean off, would we?"

And then a steak knife was stuck just north of the fork.

It became a cycle of heat and dizziness rocking through his body—a new flare of heat for each new piece of silver embedded into his flesh, and a wave of dizziness as Marion leaned back and allowed him to hurtle over the worst of the pain before adding another.

John had no idea how long the two of them had been sitting there. Aside from the slide of the silver across the table when Marion picked up her next tool, and the inhuman sounds forcing themselves out of John's throat, there was no sound in the whole house. Marion didn't speak, didn't seem to react, intent only on sticking fork after fork and knife after knife into John's body. After she had placed what she deemed an appropriate number in his legs, she stroked her fingers up his arms affectionately. That had been his only warning before the tines of a serving fork slid between the radius and ulna of his right arm.

Newer and darker in its intensity, pain swamped John, overwhelming him and causing the room around him to sway. The overhead light seemed to be trapped in a funhouse mirror, its middle bulging and disappearing repeatedly. He thought he was hallucinating when he heard a sharp buzzing of a doorbell.

When Marion grinned and stood to answer it, he thought he heard her say, "Ah, our guest of honor, finally come for the best man," but her figure and voice were quickly swallowed up in warm, wet, blackness.

* * *

Notes: The radius and ulna are the two bones of your forearm stretching from wrist to elbow. There a women who work in the House of Lords (and the House of Commons), which are the two houses of the British Parliament, much like our Congress and House of Representatives here in the states. Reputedly-in the last book I read on the subject, the houses are both still largely "old boy's clubs", but that glass ceiling is being removed and altered, pane by pane, for better or for worse. (Not attempting to promote or dissuade feminists here, just not a legislative branch sort of gal in general. I'd like to see them all forcibly retired and placed with new candidates at a much lower rate with a much higher performance rating-let's get things done, people.)

E/N: Please review.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

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A/N: So, a bit of a hang-up for your last chapter, this one will be a longer chapter to carry through all we'll need to see for some sort of conclusion to the chaos from before. Despite several requests from the reviews, Anderson's clumsiness will not appear nor be explained in this chapter. Perhaps later.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC and all rights belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and Doyle respectively.

* * *

Trigger: Character death, criminal mind completely shredded for evidence, and everyone except Lestrade feeling guilty.

* * *

John's alarm clock woke him.

He tried to move his arm to hit the alarm, but both limbs felt as though they had fallen asleep, his right had a distinct pressure at the wrist and elbow while his left was numb by degrees, his hand completely numb, his wrist a bit tingly still, and his forearm shot through with pins and needles. He groaned at the continued assault of the noise and blinked blearily, seeking out a means of shutting off the horrid sound, taking in the sight of the hospital room around him.

"John?" With a rush, the blood flooded back through his left hand, and his veins and muscles painfully berated him for their maltreatment.

John looked around, shifting his left arm now that he could, though it hurt nearly as much to keep it moving as it did to hold it still. Working his sleep-heavy eyes he focused on the dark-haired pale figure beside him. "Sher-?" John's question broke off into fierce coughs, throat dry and ragged.

Sherlock soon had his hand on John's back, rubbing soothing circles while the other held a paper cup of water against John's hand, ready for his use. When he could breathe a little better, John gulped the water down. "That's it, John. Don't speak. Lay back. I'll answer your questions. Or what I assume must be your questions."

John nodded glancing down at the bandages over his right forearm, the thickness around his legs under the blankets which must be further bandages, and the drip hooked up to his right elbow which was the painkillers running amok in his system at the moment.

"You're at St. Bart's. Obviously. You probably remember being wounded by Miss Wynters at her home, but you were unconscious when I got there… "John's eyes had adjusted to the brightness and he focused his gaze on Sherlock. The tall man was much more pale than normal. His lips were moving tightly. "You probably don't know then, that I arrived at her home and managed to bait her enough to lead her away from you, incapacitate her, and summon Lestrade and an ambulance. Once these things were done I…"

A memory of Sherlock's voice danced through John's mind: _"As ever, you see but do not observe."_ John moved his eyes away from Sherlock's strained face and looked down at the man's hands, watching those long fingers tightly gripping his only uninjured arm. "Sherlock."

"John. You aren't to speak. As I was saying," Sherlock berated.

"Sherlock. Come here."

Sherlock blinked at him once, mouth open over words he had planned to say, and then leaned forward, concern creasing his eyes under pinched brows. "John? I'm right here. I haven't left. I swear."

John reached his good hand, careful of his Murphy drip line, still held by Sherlock's two hands, and brushed his hand against Sherlock's face. The detective leaned into the gesture, but never moved his eyes rom searching John's face. "I knew you'd come. I knew."

Sherlock nodded, but his form was growing blurry. "Always, John. Lay back, John, you need to move slowly."

John nodded, closing his eyes against a wave of nausea. "Tell me about the case. So you incapacitated her? Is she still breathing?" John's memory danced backwards several years to an incident with a "intruder" who "fell" out of their window, several times. John smiled at the memory, and felt Sherlock's grip on his arm loosen a touch as the detective relaxed.

"Unfortunately. But I am of course well versed in the numerous ways a person may be hurt without causing death. She was very incapacitated."

"Good." John opened his eyes again and was rewarded with the welcome sight of Sherlock's grin. "What happened when Lestrade got there?"

Sherlock shifted closer, voice dropping lower. "Well, Lestrade walked in and then he saw you. I had untied your bonds, but I was afraid of removing the cutlery for fear of inflicting further nerve damage, as well as increasing your blood loss."

"Right. Glad to hear it. So then?" John closed his eyes again, fighting dual senses of a dizzy head and a nauseous stomach the longer his eyes were held open.

"Lestrade looked at her and then just walkied to see how much longer before the ambulance would arrive. Once the paramedics arrived, I…"

"They got the job of putting the silverware away, huh?"

Sherlock's grip tightened once more. "I know you were unconscious, but… Lestrade and I held you as they did and…"

"Thank you."

Sherlock nodded and remained silent for a few long minutes. Something had been welling up within him that he seemed to be bursting to say, and Sherlock finally exploded with it, "I'm so sorry, John. It's my fault, and I should never have—"

"Sherlock." The detective kept his gaze on John's bed sheets, gaze seeming to be punishing him by focusing on the bandages which lay thickly beneath the thin cotton. "It doesn't matter. I mean, well, obviously it matters, but I don't blame you. It is not and never will be your fault—no matter what's wrong with me. She injured me, you saved me. Even if I'll never walk again, it will never be your fault, have you got that?" John glared at Sherlock determinedly even as his mind screamed at the idea of never walking again.

"No, John. That's not what I—The doctors say you'll be fine; there is some bad muscles and nerve damage, but they think you'll be up and walking in a few days, once the pain kicks down a few notches."

John's whole body felt like fluid as he completely relaxed, shoulder unrolling the tension he hadn't realized was there. "Then what were you apologizing for, Sherlock?"

Instead of speaking, Sherlock tucked his right hand into the pocket of his coat, which the tosser was still wearing despite the warmth of the hospital room. Sherlock pulled out a scrap of paper which seemed vaguely familiar to John and unfolded it before laying it on John's lap.

IOU, SHERL:)CK  
2143 Maple Ave  
p.s.-come soon, for your doctor's sake.

John stared at the paper as his stomach dropped out of his body and must have landed on the cement two floors below. "No. No."

* * *

When John woke again, he heard quiet voices murmuring near the door to his room. Opening his eyes, he found Sherlock still beside him, Mycroft standing at the foot of his bed—still holding his umbrella, did the man sleep with it?—and Greg speaking with a man in a medical coat at the door.

"John," Sherlock's voice silenced the conversation. Greg nodded to the doctor, who walked away with a nod, and moved into the hospital room, coming to sit in the chair beside Sherlock as the man continued, "I'm sorr—"

"No. Not your fault. I… Thank you. I wanted to know."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Moriarty IS dead, John. This is not his work, nor even the work of his web, which my brother eliminated during his holiday." John bit his lip to keep from snapping at the elder Holmes; only that ponce could call Sherlock's life-threatening, three year hunt a holiday. "I find I must offer you each an apology, as the mastermind of this particular stunt, and the several murders the good Detective Inspector has been working tirelessly to bring to justice were all the work of an employee of mine."

John blinked. He looked down at his hands, shifting both arms without much discomfort, just a bit of tension. He shook his head a little, trying to unravel the riddle inside Mycroft's apology. "What?"

"Did Miss Wynters give you any name or motive during your time with her, John?" The infuriating man even made being kidnapped and tortured sound like an appointment. Tersely, he shook his head, pulling his shoulders back into a facsimile of parade rest, preparing himself.

Mycroft nodded at his brother absently as he continued. "Apparently, Miss Wynters only knew her employer as Scout. Earnest Carpenter, or Eli Zimmerman as he was known in his native Germany, before he began working with us. His first encounter with Moriarty was when we captured him before his final dance with Sherlock. I was unaware of any communication between Moriarty and any of my staff, but there is footage I had not seen where he discusses the plans to destroy the both of you."

Mycroft bowed his head. "Mister Carpenter, the Scout, was one of my men who sorted through the CCTV footage I sought for any particular need. He was able then to pinpoint targets and give directions to Miss Wynters, a young woman who apparently saw no scruple in killing people—even those she knew—to pay off her student loans."

John allowed the information to digest for a moment. "But, why… Why was Moriarty's plan a wedding, and why did your man go along with it? Surely he had to have been convinced?"

Sherlock shifted forward and placed a hand against John's shoulder, pulling him back towards the elevated half of the bed. "The wedding bit was apparently Miss Wynters idea, in mockery of the royal wedding, saying she could stage a wedding that would receive more attention, with more fanfare and spectacle. It was her thumbing her nose to the royals. Nothing more was needed to motivate a plan, apparently, since she was planning to target us with the plan as well."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand as he continued, "As for convincing Carpenter, it appears his brother served with you, and died in combat. He saw this as a means of revenge. He was also granted a hefty sum by Moriarty, which was slowly fed into Carpenter's accounts."

John nodded, mind racing to recall a Zimmerman or a Carpenter in army fatigues, and after five minutes, he whispered, "Andrew Zimmerman. Ti was my first month as a medic in the field. He'd been shot in the leg and fallen onto a mine. There was nothing I could…"

"John, this is not your fault," Sherlock's voice thundered with finality.

"I must apologize once more, Doctor Watson, I meant only to explain the motives behind this Scout, not dredge up unpleasant memories or allow you to assume any portion of the responsibility yourself. That burden is shared between myself and my brother, for not seeing the threat or snake in the grass soon enough."

John pinched his bed sheets, sorting through the chaotic churn of emotion that was behind the wheel of his brain at the moment. Moriarty was dead, but hadn't really been gone. But, Scout/Eli Zimmerman/Earnest Carpenter was being "taken care of" by Mycroft, Miss Wynters was… "What happened to Miss Wynters? And the girl, the one dressed to be the bride?"

Greg snorted. "Miss Wynters was D.O.A. I know she had a pulse, and a strong one at that, when we finally got her an ambulance, but I suppose," Greg looked over at Mycroft and finished, "these things do happen. As for the bride, she delivered the note to Sherlock, and raced out of 221B and straight into a lorry. She's in the theatre now, and we'll let you know once she either stabilizes or..."

John let out a weak laugh, "Christ." He bowed his head forward into his hands, and focused on not remembering all the vivid details of his recent torture, or the late Private Zimmerman, both of which boxed with his ravaged mind. Sherlock's hand rested along his neck, warming the skin beneath it and ground John, giving him an anchor to combat ach set of memories.

John nodded wearily before pulling his hands away and looking over at Sherlock. "So, what now?"

Sherlock gripped the offered hand firmly. "Now you rest. I'll need my blogger back in working order."

* * *

E/N: Zimmerman is German for Carpenter, which I learned due to the high number of Zimmermans and Carpenters in my small county where over two hundred years ago German settlers made their new home. My county is still over 70% German ancestry, with only some Native American heritage mixing in with those families. Suffice to say, when I moved here, I also learned that 90% of the county is related. Creepy, but true.

Hmm, more to come soon, moving on from the crime and onto the relationship. Enjoy and please review!


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